The Fall
by QueenOfSpain
Summary: Might change to M for language. A/U Modern Day. Story started as all OC, but then... well, couldn't help myself. A look at the early days of Holmes, Watson, and a third roommate who gets pulled into things she's physically and mentally unprepared for. [/cough-cough. Changes to ch.3 due to my planning abilities...]
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: We all know the drill. I got started on something and wanted to see where it would go. I'm updating with two chapters at once, b/c the first chapter was a writing exercise a while back. Chapter Two gets into the fan-fiction bits.**

I lay my drooping head against the bar for a moment and watch beads of condensation roll down the side of a tumbler of vodka over ice. I don't have those fancy names on my tongue anymore- _on the rocks_ , _neat_ , _old-fashioned. Wasn't that a cocktail?_ The vodka slides down like water, and my face glows red. I'm so sure I've got a tattoo of spilled Schnapps on my cheek, but maybe no one will notice.

The bartender is busy with closing tabs and cleaning a night's worth of spills. The music has become more audible, a series of bassy hits and an indiscernible vocalist. A tired-looking man argues with another by the pool table.

As I cross my eyes to focus on illuminated bottles, I hear the end of a tirade and a brush at my shoulder. "What do you think?" I roll my head slowly to face a toothy grin. I get the feeling that if I don't answer, he'll keep himself company. Talking about himself to himself.

"I'll be right back," I tell him to get out of the situation. I check my face in the bathroom mirror. There are bits of my hair grabbed by the sticky pool on my cheek. Broken glass crunches under my feet. _Am I wearing shoes? One heel, two heels. That's all I came with._ I kick a needle, and stumble over single sink; I almost headbutt the shit-caked spigot. I try the faucet, get a trickle, and wipe the stain. Try covering it with powder. Whatever; good enough.

I find my seat and throw back the rest of my drink. I've never been so grateful for a seat. I rock on the stool, but steady myself. He keeps talking, and I wonder if he ever stopped. I'm floating in another dimension where I can't feel pain. He grabs my wrist, and I'm just confused. "Nah...", I say instinctively, but I'm still up from the bar and walking.

 _Why? Where?_

I hear a loud snapping sound, and somehow go down with it. I grab the bar to pull myself up, and go down again. _There must be a structural difficulty?_ It's all I can figure.

"You tripped on a glass and broke your heel." Some guy informs me from up above.

"Break the other one to even me out," I tell him with solid engineering knowledge.

He prods my ankle and calls out, "Ice and a bar towel, man." He mutters something to himself along the lines of "bullshit" and "shithole dump".

Something has shocked me into acknowledging the social contract-maybe it was the fall, or simply vodka wearing off. "Oh, that's not necessary. I can just take these off and snag a cab."

"Jesus...", he says. It's less an admonishment and more resignation. "Hand me that First Aid kit." My ankle has some pressure applied, and I hear tape ripping. "This isn't going to hold you for long, but you should be able to get home on that. There's a cab waiting outside."

He gives me his hand and pulls me up. My heel holds. "Thank you..." And I stumble into the cab.

I can't remember what I gave the cab driver for address, or if I even told him where I lived, but when the car stops, I get out at the building it's stopped at. My body gives out on a pile of leaves near a door, and the soft smell of the fall follows me into sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

I struggle to pull myself out of unconsciousness, while still wishing to fall back into it. My head isn't simply pounding; my entire body aches and sinks like cement into the soft bedding I find myself on. I vaguely remember passing out in leaves...? I crack one eye open to see a glass of water and a round, white pill. I close my eyes against the piercing day, take the pill, and drift back off to sleep, zigzags and fireworks tracing the backs of my eyelids as I go.

When I come to again, I throw off the sweat-soaked blankets and notice the shades are pulled and the apartment is relatively dark. My muscles have figuratively been replaced with lead, but I sit up on the couch. It burns. My cane, perched cheekily against the wall, mocks me in my pain. Pins and needles shoot up my arm as I grasp the handle and work to pull myself to my feet. One of my legs starts buckling.

 _What the fuck happened last night?_

Waterproof tape and expertly wrapped bar towels form a boot over my right ankle. It aches fiercely. Patent stilettos lay busted in the corner, covered in sludge and leaves. I reach a free hand to my tangled bun and pull out dried leaves, and upon inspecting my slacks, I'm fucking covered in grime and leaves. My purse-thankfully-made its way back home as well, along with a note?

 _Pulled you out of the alley last night. Grabbed your purse and shit. Mind that ankle; it's probably broken. Food in fridge. Be back later. - JW_

My roommate must think I'm like an alcoholic house cat: an idiot animal that gets itself in trouble, goes hungry, and needs to be pulled inside by a responsible human. He wouldn't be wrong.

Our apartment isn't exactly "cushy" or "habitable" or "suitable for human dwelling", but it's mostly in our budget, I suppose. John came back from the war without much money or housing options, and I was what you'd call "between homes". He doesn't talk much about his time in Afghanistan, but I suppose he wouldn't. I don't know him too well, but he's a pretty quiet roommate. He ended up using his medic skills from the field to get some steady work at the community clinic. With his kind of skills, he should be able to move out of this butthole place, but he keeps re-upping his monthly lease. None of my business, anyway.

I start a pot of coffee and take a drag on a cheap Menthol. My work, on the other hand... I exhale an exasperated smoke ring. Shit happens, I suppose.

The coffee goes down like a pool of knives on my dry throat, but I'm thankful for the caffeine. I check one of our stale cookies for worms and munch absently. Rent's going to be hard enough to make this month as it is, but with a busted foot, it's impossible. If I skip the ER and pay my end of the rent, I'll just make it, and the cigarettes will suppress my appetite enough to stretch the peanut butter and white bread.

My Dickensian budgeting is cut short from a rattling at the fire escape. _Thieves_. I look for cover in an apartment with next to no furnishings. John's bedroom is open a crack, and I hobble as fast as my leg and cane can go. He has virtually nothing: a bed, neatly made; a green, canvas duffel; and a desk with nothing on it. I press myself against the wall behind his open door. I hear a single set of footsteps clack and echo through our open living area. They draw nearer. The light switches on in John's room!

I'll be found. The door start moving, and I choke up on my cane like a baseball bat. I don't even see the whites of his eyes before I crack him in the ribs. He bends forward with a surprised "oomph", and I switch hands and grips to attack with the crook. I swing it around his neck as he yells, "John!"

I use his own forward momentum to pull him to the ground, and press the busted heel firmly into his neck. "No sudden movements, a'ight? What you need with my boy, John?"

He turns his head slightly so I can hear him. "We have a job." Huh, British.

"That's funny," I say, pressing my foot a bit more firmly into his neck. "'Cause John ain't exactly the freelancing type."

"I'm Sherlock, you idiot! We do this all the time!"

Oh no he didn't. "Idiot?! You're the one about to get his scrawny neck snapped, 'cause you took the fire escape instead of ringing the damned bell. Who's the idiot now?"

"He has to have mentioned me."

"He don't talk much."

The man pulls a newspaper clipping out of his pocket. Under a headline celebrating police work is a picture of John standing with some men I don't recognize, one of whom could very well be the man under my foot. If you imagined him not kissing the floor and all. The caption names a Sherlock and John, men who have apparently worked together before. I lessen up the pressure and unhook my cane. It feels good to lean against it again; my entire body threatens to give out on me. "You probably have business here, so I'll leave you to it, then," I say, surprisingly low on breath. "D'ya mind ringing first next time, though?"

For a man who just got cracked a good one, he takes my request surprisingly well. "Absolutely. I've been so focused on the case that I forgot Watson has a roommate now."

I start limping to the couch. "His old Army buddies call him Watson. Is that how you all met, or?"

He rubs his ribs while following me. "It's a long story."

"Right on." I throw him a pot of Tiger Balm from under the couch and gesture at his ribs. "For bruising."

He opens the pot, takes a whiff, and almost coughs. I don't think it'll be his jam. I lay gingerly against the couch, each contact point drilling right through me. I gratefully take a cigarette from his outstretched hand. "Thanks. These are nice."

"Imports," he remarks while lighting his own. "So you've had some training?" I look at him quizzically. "Those moves back there."

"Oh that." I take a long drag. A little too long. "Well you know what they say: adrenaline kicks in, and it's all gravy from there, right?"

He smiles. "I'm sure."

We smoke in silence for a while. He chews the inside of his cheek and gazes past our walls into another world. Suddenly, he stands up. "Thank you for the company. I'm still piecing together this case, so I should be going."

I yawn. "Good deal, man. Be careful of that expensive suit out in Tetanus Alley. You're going to need a booster shot if you keep this up."

He looks down at his clothes like he forgot they were there. "Right. Yes. Of course."

He swings one leg over the window sill before something seems to dawn on him. "Pardon?" I roll up wearily. "I don't believe I caught your name?"

I lay back. "Dana. Just call me Dana."

"Pleasure making your acquaintance, Dana. I'm sure we'll meet again." I hear the window close and he rattles down the escape.


	3. Chapter 3

Gravel crunched and slipped under Holmes's Armanis as he strode confidently toward a festive-sounding garden gathering. It seemed unwise, in this weather and season, to hold festivities out of doors, but perhaps—as he slicked back his hair and buttoned his sport coat—they thought this sort of thing through. It would be unbecoming to rub elbows with the most influential people in the city whilst chattering in the teeth. And what poor publicity, he thought wryly, for doctors to contract pneumonia at an ill-advised party.

As the path ended, Holmes realized he need not have worried: tall propane heaters huddled close to high tables. Each table glowed softly with the flicker of a candle flame and clinks of wine glasses. The party was situated under a canopy, protecting the guests from the on-and-off drizzle this city is so fond of. "Your knees, sir," a voice whispered conspiratorially in his ear. A member of waitstaff, dressed smartly in black and white, gestured discreetly with only his eyes.

Holmes brushed twigs and dirt from his knees, and straightened his trouser legs. "Better?"

"It's dark in here, sir. Here," the waitstaff handed him a glass of wine. "You'll need this."

"Is it really that bad?" While Holmes certainly could hold his own at social functions, there was something delightfully liberating about being able to speak so candidly.

"Dr. Chesterfield is sharing his 'vacation' stories from Phuket. Ms. Browning is on her fifth glass."

"Have you seen Dr. Watson?"

The fellow gave Holmes a knowing look. "He's at the far table with Ms. Browning."

Typical. "I had best bring two of these, then. It will prove difficult to pull him from her."

Over the mild din of the party, Holmes heard raucous, high-pitched laughter. Watson leaned forward on the table, gesturing grandly to a rapt woman, her sparkled shawl dangling precariously near the open flame, red wine sloshing up the walls of her goblet. "And when I came back," Holmes muttered under his breath, nearing the table.

"...there was oil everywhere!" Holmes and Watson finished in unison. Ms. Browning threw her head back in laughter. Watson drank in the indirect praise, along with a sip of a brandy neat.

"Oh Dr. Watson, you really are too much!" Ms. Browning lightly tapped him on the arm.

"He is quite the storyteller," Holmes cut in, dryly. He saw Watson's shoulder jump a little at the sound of his voice.

"Mr. Holmes, it's so good of you to join us," Watson smiled without it quite reaching his eyes. "Have you met Ms. Browning? From the board of directors at Mercy?"

"I have not. It's a pleasure Ms. Browning. Watson, I..." Holmes laid the drinks on the table.

Ms. Browning giggled and played with her shawl. "Why didn't you introduce me to your friend sooner, John?"

"I didn't realize... he'd be here?" Watson's glare at Holmes could rip a man in twain.

"Thank goodness for small miracles," she purred. "So what's your story, Mr. Holmes?"

If the party had been quieter, Holmes may have heard gnashing of teeth. They could have easily been Watson's or his own, to be quite honest, as he had no intention to go for a letch when there's work to be done. "Ms. Browning, I'm flattered by your interest, but I am unable to satisfy in the way you're seeking. Now if you'll please let me borrow Dr. Watson for a moment...?"

She looked confused, until Holmes pushed another glass of wine into her hands.

As they walked down the garden path Holmes recently trudged, Watson hissed, "Did you have to be so blunt back there?! People are going to talk!"

Once they were at a safe distance from staff and party-goers, Holmes responded with, "Oh please, with the way you... pursue women, there's no question. And she'll be lucky if she remembers tomorrow."

Watson accepted this explanation, and somewhat used to Holmes's brusque manner, let it go. "Did you interrupt my networking time to provide commentary on my love life, or do you have something of substance?"

Holmes raised an eyebrow at the word "networking". He opened up his sport coat and pulled out a small, black notebook for Watson's inspection. "There have been some interesting developments with our case."

Watson groaned. "Don't say it like that. _Our_. It makes me think you don't realize I'm not going to be your private Medical Examiner."

"Come now, Jenkins is an idiot. I can only trust you to make a thorough investigation and to give me unbiased facts."

"Jenkins isn't an idiot; he's just bureaucratic." It was meant to come out as an excuse, but Watson still sounded as though he was conceding defeat. "What do you need?"

"There's a body waiting for you in the morgue. I've sealed it off, just for you."

"Oh good. And you came all this way to rip from a lovely party," Watson paused and turned his head toward distant laughter, "to pull me to a dank basement?"

Holmes smiled sheepishly. "I'll drive?" When Watson looked less than impressed, he added, "I can only keep this sealed for so long. Please? I'm asking nicely?"

Watson laughed and shook his head. "Let me park my car for the night."


End file.
